


Can I See?

by whatdoyouthinkmyjobis



Series: Hunters on the Hellmouth [16]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Apologies, Bonding, Crossover, Dean Apologizes, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, Makeup Sex, Making Up, Recovery, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8165348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatdoyouthinkmyjobis/pseuds/whatdoyouthinkmyjobis
Summary: While trying to patch up the giant hole Spike tore in their relationship, Buffy learns Dean isn't as innocent as he pretends to be. Meanwhile, Sam reaches out to Willow.





	

Making herself invisible for two whole days had worn Willow down. Having skin harvested from her stomach for Gnarl snacks hadn’t done her any favors either. After a session using Buffy’s strength to magically help her grow new skin, Willow was ready to go back to sleep; however, she didn’t want to miss another moment with her friend. So they lay in bed holding hands and staring at the ceiling.

“Something is coming, Buffy. Something dark and old. I can feel it deep down when I reach into the Earth for energy.” Willow’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’ve fought monsters and gods. I’ve seen horrible things; done horrible things. Yet this _terrifies_ me. It’s like a burning light that can see right through you, reveal your worst self, then consume you.”

“That sounds like a four-star attraction in the Sunnydale tourism brochure.”

“I’m serious, Buffy!”

“I know,” said Buffy, squeezing her hand. “We’ve been seeing signs and general rumblage. Vague threats too. I always love those. At this point though, all we can do is wait until we know more. I can’t fight the boogey man.”

Willow breathed shallowly, not wanting to irritate her scabs. “Do you think the boogey man is real?”

Buffy snorted a laugh. “Between everything we’ve experienced and some of the stuff I’ve heard from Dean and Sam, it wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

Facing everyone after what she had done and learning to better command her magic was going to be Willow’s biggest challenge. Dean and Sam were an unexpected layer in an already too complicated situation. Now she had to socialize with new, intimidating men. True, they had saved her, but something about them, Dean especially, reminded Willow of every handsome, entitled guy she’d ever met. Guys who would steal her homework, bully her in the hallways, knock over her lunch tray, and then have the gall to hit on her best friend. Of course, Buffy was dating him.

“Is Dean a happy topic today or are you still mad at him? Because I have the best-friend-need-to-knows going on here, but I thought we could start with unknown dark evil and work our way to happier things. Where does he fall between unknown evil and puppies?”

“Let’s go with full-grown guard dog. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before you returned, Will. ‘I’ve got a boyfriend’ just sounded small and petty compared to everything you’ve been through lately.”

Knowing Buffy’s history with secret boyfriends, she wasn’t sure if this was a matter of not wanting to let people in or not wanting to let her recently murderous best friend in.

“I could use petty. Petty and chocolate and maybe some shopping?”

A wide grin burst across Buffy’s face. “Now you’re speaking my language!”

“Besides, the boyfriend thing didn’t look too petty,” Willow pressed.

Her friend sighed. “He went from irritating jerk to hook up to boyfriend pretty fast.”

“‘Hook up?’ That doesn’t sound like you. Is MTV colonizing your brain?”

“Maybe. I thought I’d try a thing! It’s hard enough to find someone I’d want to go on one date with, let alone who ticks all the boyfriend boxes. Dean was just passing through town, and well, did you see him? He ticks a major box. He was supposed to be a fling. A very hot, kinky fling,” Buffy started to blush as she lost herself in memories Willow wasn’t eager to know the details of.

“Maybe it’s because things moved so fast, maybe it’s just us, but we’re swinging all pendulum-like. One day we’re mad at each other, the next day being apart is painful,” Buffy said.

“I’ve seen the mad; I need the mush,” Willow said, smiling with her tongue between her teeth. “I love a good mush.”

Buffy started waving her hands, excited to list her new boyfriend’s better qualities. “I know he seems super rough, but Dean is this big sweet, dorky teddy bear. He sings really loud in the car. I can’t stand the music, but he’s so into it, he always makes me laugh. If I get hurt in a fight, he practically hovers over me bringing me food – he cooks by the way – and he rubs my feet until all my bruises are gone.”

“Awww, I want foot rubs,” said Willow, hoping that maybe she’d jumped to conclusions.

“I know! He’s great!” Buffy sighed, her voice changing from a bubbly gush to tired and annoyed. “But then last night he was all macho and stupidly protective. I _hate it_ when he’s protective. And sometimes I feel like he wants to put me on a pedestal in a museum with a tag that says ‘Superhero Girlfriend,’ and I keep telling him he has to let me do my job.”

“In the defense of mister macho gunslinger, you didn’t tell him about Spike,” Willow said.

“It was on my to dos,” Buffy said with a pout, “right behind getting over my denial that Spike was back.”

“Most people don’t like learning their new girlfriend is still hanging out with her ex.”

“Dean doesn’t even know about that.” Buffy leaned against the wall and buried her face in her knees. “He just discovered the vampire part, not the your-girlfriend-did-the-nasty-with-a-vampire exhibit in the Buffy Hall of Shame.”

“What are you going to do when he finds out? What’s he going to do?”

“I don’t know, Will,” she said quietly.

Willow didn’t know Dean at all, but she knew Buffy had a habit of thinking she could control secrets, a faith that had proven itself misplaced time and time again. “You need to get out in front of this. Lying doesn’t help. I mean, I almost drove Tara away by lying to her and playing games.”

Willow could picture the sting of betrayal in Tara’s eyes the night she’d left just as strongly as she could taste her kiss the night she’d returned. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she choked, “But maybe I should have kept lying? If she hadn’t come back, she w-wouldn’t have d-died!”  Willow’s stomach burned as racking sobs overcame her and Buffy held her tight.

* * *

 

For the third time on her way to Dean’s apartment, Buffy slid her hairband onto her wrist and ran her fingers through her hair. _He likes it down_. Everything from her black miniskirt to her spike-heeled boots had been chosen with Dean in mind. Anything to buy her a few seconds of attention while she tried to patch the damage.

When she’d last seen him, she was furious. Who was he to question her choices? Spike had been helping her, had been there for her long before Dean. Who was he to complain about secrets? Secrecy was practically Dean Winchester’s favorite hobby.

She had called him a hypocrite, a snoop. Distrustful, dishonest. Childish, selfish. She had given him the option to follow her without question or leave her alone. She had not seen him in two days and desperately wanted to take it all back.

A few minutes passed after she’d knocked on his apartment door, but she could hear harsh arguing inside. Finally, Dean cracked open the door, his broad shoulders blocking the entrance. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a couple days.

“What do you want, Buffy?”

“I brought housewarming presents for you and Sam, plus a crow I need to eat.”

He opened the door just enough for her to squeeze inside. The apartment had undergone an overhaul since she’d seen it last. The hickory wood floors had been refinished; the walls cleared and the plaster painted a slate blue. The finished barstools were set up by the kitchen where Sam was hanging the cabinet doors.

“Hi, Buffy!” he said warmly while shooting his brother a surprised look. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”

“It’s almost cozy and not a whiff of crazy person. You should both be very proud. Here’s my contribution to Casa Winchester,” she said as she handed Dean a wrapped tube and slid a rectangular package across the counter to Sam.

Sam gave a confused smile as he opened his. “ _A Treatise on Trans-Dimensional Dæmons_. There’s some bedside reading!”

“I know your gears are still turning; plus, I cleaned off your bookcases last week.”

“That you did,” he chuckled. He glanced at Dean, whose arms were crossed as he avoided looking at Buffy. “Thanks for the book. I’m going to find somewhere to put it.”

“Are you not going to open yours,” she asked Dean as Sam hastily hid in one of the bedrooms.

“Not in the mood.”

“Then can we talk?”

“You made yourself pretty clear the other night,” he said sternly.

“Forget the other night,” she said, knowing neither of them could. “We were both pretty stressed and emotional. I think we can agree we both said some things we regret. Can we have the conversation again without the stabbing?”

Dean pointed in the direction of the corner bedroom, the room he’d said he imagined her waking up in. Last weekend, she’d helped paint the two plaster walls a deep red. He had gotten furniture since then – a dresser, a trunk, a small table and chair, and a large bed. Other than the navy bedspread and white curtains, the room was empty of any flourish.

“Kind of spartan in here, soldier.”

Dean glared at her. Her presence clearly bothered him more than the bare walls.

“Ok, let’s do this dance again.” His voice was low and weary; his inflection flat, like he was reading from a terrible script. “When were you going to tell me Spike was an evil son of a bitch?”

She sat on the end of the bed and took a deep breath determined to not repeat their fight. “Okay, there are a lot of things I should have done differently. Like, I shouldn’t have assumed my best friend was a murderer. I should have let you help hunt the demon, and I should have told you about Spike before. But in the heat of the moment, it was easier to do what I normally do instead of letting you in.”

Her words barely seemed to register as he repeated his previous points. “Spike is dangerous. Why haven’t you killed him? Killin’ poofies is kinda your job.”

“Vampires are dangerous, but Spike is not. Years ago, the government was doing experiments on monsters. It was as crazy and Frankensteinian as you would imagine. They captured Spike and put a chip in his head that keeps him from hurting people.” She’d skipped telling him about the chip before and went straight for the throat of _You don’t know him_.

Dean shook his head. “I’m just going to ignore how crazy that sounds and remind you that he hurt me. Threw me into a damn tree.”

“Can I see?”

He looked surprised. In her fury the other night, she’d waved away Dean’s injury. After some hesitation, he took off his t-shirt and sat beside her. His back was a solid wall of purple and red bruises concentrated around his spine. It was a miracle his back wasn’t broken.

“God, that looks worse than I’d thought. Does it hurt?”

“Course it hurts!” he barked.

Careful to not press the tender flesh, Buffy ran her fingers around the edges of his bruise. In the chasm of days that had passed, she had missed his skin, his freckles, the warmth of his body. Her hands roamed to his arms, savored the feel of his firm biceps under her palms. Unable to resist him any longer, she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, babe.”

The tension he was holding in his muscles started to dissipate. She could have measured time in his deep breaths, in the beating of his heart, but she didn’t want time to pass. She just wanted to be touching him.

Dean turned to look at her, his eyes wolfish and wanting. All thoughts of making up slipped from her mind, replaced by the desire for him and a rough fuck.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “I dream about your hands on me.”

He kissed her gently at first then hard and sloppy as if the ferocity of the kiss could make up for lost time. Her fingers flew to his belt, the soft skin of his waist egging her on as she freed him from the rest of his clothes. Hastily, he stripped her and flipped her around, his strong arms holding her body tight against his chest, his heavy breathing rumbling through her. She pressed her legs against his muscular thighs, grinding her ass against his erection. With one hand, he massaged her breast, letting his other hand slip between her legs. A half moan-half giggle escaped her throat.

“You like that, Buffy?” he demanded, running his tongue behind her ear.

“That all you got?” she teased as she pressed his fingers harder against her aching core.

He quickened the pace. “These dirty dreams of yours. You wake up touching yourself? Thinking of me to get you off?”

It was hard to think of anything other than his fingers coaxing her to the edge. She moaned in response.

“I didn’t hear that,” he growled in her ear. “Say it again.”

“Fuck me,” she panted. “Fuck me hard.”

He grabbed her hips roughly and bent her over. One hand tangled in her hair, tugging just hard enough to send bursts of pleasure tingling from her scalp to her spine. “Harder, Dean!” she cried as he slammed into her. Each thrust sent a hot jolt through her as the tension inside her came undone.

They collapsed on the bed, sweating, panting, and pleased. Dean kissed her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids. “I missed you, too.”

“Maybe we should always have a sex intermission when we fight?” Buffy said, reveling in his touch.

“We were fighting? I don’t remember fighting.” His voice a soft purr.

“About Spike.”

His hands became just memory on her skin. Dean sat up, his back and its angry bruise turned to her. “God, did you have to bring him up again?”

“What? One roll in the hay and you aren’t thinking about killing him anymore?” She wished it were that easy, that their desire to get through this would be enough.

“You say he’s safe, but he threw me against a tree, Buffy. Feels like his chip ain’t workin’ anymore.” The tension returned to his voice, taking residence under his skin.

“It’s because you aren’t supposed to be here,” she said quietly as she got up to look for her underwear. “When Willow brought me back, Spike could hit me. You’ve died. Sam’s died. He can probably hurt you both.”

A sudden thought hit her, and she looked at him with new eyes. “But Spike wouldn’t have known that. He wouldn’t have hurt you unless you were threatening him. Did you threaten him, Dean?”

Dean looked away.

“Oh. My. God. You are unbelievable!”

“He wouldn’t tell me what was going on, then he started saying shit about you, okay? Pissed me off.”

Buffy’s lungs felt squeezed. Spike could have told Dean any number of terrible lies or truths she’d rather he not hear. “What did he say?”

“He was talking about us being together.”

“What _exactly_ did he say?”

“He said he could tell we hadn’t been together in a few days, and it was probably because you didn’t want me touching you,“ Dean muttered.

She breathed a sigh of relief before throwing Dean’s shirt at him with a frustrated shout. Was he really going to play innocent and let her grovel in her bare desperation to patch things up? “So this wasn’t even a stupid, macho, defend-a-lady’s-honor fight. This was just you swinging your dick around, laying your claim to bedding the Slayer! I’m so impressed,” she shouted as she pulled on her shirt, not knowing or caring where her bra was. She wanted to leave as soon as possible.

But Dean, still naked and with pain in his eyes, stood between her and the door. “Buffy, it wasn’t like that.”

She crossed her arms and waited for more.

“Half the time, I got no idea what’s going on in that head of yours. So when you’re running hot and cold, I don’t know if it’s just all this crap that’s happening or if you’re secretly pissed at me an’ I’m supposed to figure it out! Moment to moment, I can’t tell if this is working. I don’t know how, but that goddamn poofy found that button and pushed it, because the only time I know, really know, that things are okay is when I’m touching you. God, that sounds cheesy.”

Buffy didn’t think it sounded cheesy at all. Hands cupping his face, she pulled him down to her and firmly stamped him with her kiss. He drew her in close, both hands slipping up her back under her shirt.

She rested her head against his chest. “Babe, I need you to listen to what I’m going to say and trust me. If we were over, I would tell you we were over. If I need space, I will tell you I need space. Barring that, I _always_ want you to touch me. This may be hard for you to believe, but I like you, Dean Winchester. You make me feel happy, which isn’t something I get to feel a lot. More than that, you make me feel normal.”

At that, he started to quietly chuckle which quickly snowballed into a body-shaking laugh. “Normal? We fight monsters.”

“Yes, we do. You and me…and Sam. I have experienced things, endured things, that no one can come close to understanding. In the end, I always feel cut off. Then you popped up out of nowhere. I wish you didn’t share those things, but you do. In the ocean of weird, you tether me to normalness.”

Stroking his stubbled chin, she pulled his face towards hers so she could look deep into his mossy green eyes. “But as much as you and I have in common, we’re worlds apart on other things. I may get to enjoy these blips of not-a-freak-ness, but I’m still the Slayer. I call the shots here. I decide what lives and dies. If you can’t handle that, Dean, if you feel the need to second guess me and go behind my back, we can’t be together. Happiness? Normalcy? Those things can be shed, but I will always be the Slayer.”

Dean turned away from her and wearily pulled on his jeans. “I need you to explain somethin’ to me. You say Spike’s got this crazy chip in his head, and that’s why you don’t kill him. He’s a useful ally and all, but what if the chip stops working? How do you know it’s working now?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. Spike doesn’t want to kill people.”

“Buffy, he’s a blood-sucking monster. Killing people is his instinct.”

“For the demon inside of him, yes. But…” She paced the room uncertain where her words wanted to go. _Honesty_. “Dean, I’m going to tell you something no one knows yet. Remember how I said Spike left town? He wanted to be better, to reclaim his humanity.”

She sucked on her lip trying to maintain her control, but all she could see was Spike about to plunge a stake into his cut up chest in the church as he unburdened his confession. His madness and his penance. “That’s why he’s acting so crazy. He won his soul back and with it all the heavy soul baggage.”

She took a deep breath and steadied her voice. “Spike is in this weird place between being a person and being a monster, and who am I to tell him he’s not done enough? Who am I to tell him he can’t atone?

“You’re right that I’m the Slayer and my entire point is to kill, but, God, I need something more hopeful than that.” Her voice cracked as she held back tears. “I need to see if someone’s goodness can win over their demons. If a soul can heal from Hell. I need to believe in redemption, Dean.”

She expected him to counter, to argue, but Dean silently stared at the floor and scratched the hand print scar on his arm. “Okay, I won’t kill him,” he muttered. “But he bloodies a fang, and I’m ganking his ass.”

“Oh, no you won’t. Spike goes off the deep end, I call dibs. All the history we have, I’d owe him a staking at that point.”

_You need to get out in front of this_ , but she would wait to upset Dean again on a different day. Besides, Spike, scratching at his chest and rambling to no one, didn’t seem like he’d be leaving the school’s basement any time soon.

She tried to smile to fight off the uncomfortable tightness she felt over her emotional display. Surprisingly, Dean didn’t seem put off by the crying at all. He busied himself with kissing away the tears on her cheeks and her eyelashes. As he massaged her head, he asked, “What do you want to do now?”

A hungry smile flashed across her lips. “Mmm, I liked what we were doing before, between the fighting.”

“Me too. Big fan.” He grinned before tossing her back on the bed.

* * *

 

“You’re by yourself?” Dawn asked with slight disappointment when she opened the door. 

“Buffy and Dean are…busy. I figured I’d enjoy the quiet over here,” Sam explained. “I did bring an offering of Skittles.”

The teenager snatched the bag. “You know, you can just walk in. Buffy moved you into the trust column weeks ago. Saw it myself.”

She plopped down on the couch and handed him a bowl of popcorn. “Are they fighting-about-Spike-busy or sex-busy?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “How old are you?”

“Yeah, because the scariest thing I could know about is sex.” Dawn rolled her eyes. “Are they back together? I hope so.”

“Well, they’re not fighting.”

“Yay! Buffy’s a total pain when she’s mad at her boyfriend. ‘Clean your room! Turn down your music! Don’t get eaten!’ Just because she can’t get along with a guy doesn’t mean I need to be smother-mothered.”

Dawn started excitedly fluttering her hands. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Buffy probably didn’t tell you what with the busy having sex and all, but I dusted my first vamp last night!”

“Dawnie, that’s great!” Sam exclaimed, happy for the topic shift.

“Yeah, I ran away when he rose – but wait this is great – and I hid in a corner crying and squealing. He thought I was going to be so delicious, but when he got close enough – BOOM! – stake to the heart. You see, I was playing the whole time. Buffy told me I should try out for the school play next month.”

“That is certainly one way of doing it.” Sam tossed more popcorn in his mouth. “What are we watching tonight?”

Twenty minutes into _Survivor_ , a scream and clatter pierced their calm evening. Sam and Dawn bolted into the kitchen to find Willow running water over her hand; a cookie sheet and fish sticks littered the floor.

“Willow, are you okay? What happened?” asked Dawn, rushing to her friend’s side.

“J-just clumsy, Dawnie. It’s nothing,” she sniffled.

Judging from the food, the water, and the open oven, Sam was fairly certain that Willow had absentmindedly grabbed her dinner from the oven without a mitt, the sort of stupid thing a person does when they’re an emotional wreck. Sam himself, scholarship winner and straight A student, had nearly walked into traffic a couple times after Jess was killed. “Dawn, could you grab the first aid kit?”

Without hesitation, she ran upstairs.

“Can I see?” he gently asked Willow.

Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “It’s nothing. Really. I was just being stupid.”

“I think you’re allowed to not be in top form at the moment. Now, show me your hand.” An angry blister bloomed over her palm. He put her hand back under the water to pull out the heat. “On the not-at-all bright side, it should help you not think about the gashes on your stomach.”

“I would quip at you, or maybe even go full snarky, but I’m busy with the ow,” she said through gritted teeth.  

Dawn returned with the large first aid kit, and Sam rifled through it. “Damn it. Dawn, is this everything? I looks like you’re out of gauze.”

“I’ll check!” she said before disappearing again.

“I’d settle for a Spongebob bandage.”

“No Spongebob, but I do see Powerpuff Girls.”

“Even better!” Willow tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a whine. “You always seem to be around when I’m getting hurt. Are you my bad luck charm, Sam?”

He knew she was joking, that she couldn’t know how often he felt like a stain, the freakish boy-king with the hordes of Hell in tow, but he still struggled to hide the sting. “I hope not. I’m over here a lot.”

“The Boyfriend and the Brother are on my list of things to catch up on. You’re behind ‘agonizing loss’ and in front of ‘reality tv.’”

Her jokes did nothing to mask the bite in her voice. Sam was new, an imposition on her difficult road to recovery. He’d been on that road himself, and as much as she would be pleased if he disappeared, he knew that wouldn’t help her situation.

He also didn’t want to go home to more of Dean and Buffy’s grunting dirty talk.

Dawn returned with a roll of gauze and started quietly cleaning fish sticks off the floor.

“Been busy your first few days home?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

Willow looked at him with cold, tired eyes. “I should have registered for classes by now, but mostly I’ve been laying on the floor of my room listening to ‘Iris’ on repeat. Guess that makes me the poster child of recovery.”

“Kind of. Everyone goes through mourning at their own pace. If someone is telling you how fast you should be healing, frankly, they’re full of shit.”

Willow turned off the water and let her red hand drip over the sink. “What do you know about mourning?” The question felt like a gauntlet thrown.

Dawn scuttled out of the room.

For all the stories he’d heard of Willow – powerful witch, skinned a man, tried to kill her friends, tried to end the world – Sam wasn’t scared. He’d spent months with Lucifer breathing down his neck. A person in pain, witch or not, was familiar territory.

“I know what I’ve felt when I’ve lost people I cared about. I’ve seen what loss has done to my brother. Judging from my own experience, I’m betting that right now you feel like you should have been able to stop it. _If only_ this and _I should’ve_ that. Also from my own experience, I bet revenge floats into your mind a lot, and sometimes you let it take over.” He set the gauze on the counter and grabbed a paper towel.

“What I remember the most is the crushing shame,” he continued. “Not only did I not save people I loved, I made their loss about my pain. I lost sight of them in my rage and agony. I let a darkness consume me that would have horrified them.”

He held out his hand for Willow to give him her wounded palm. She held it close to her chest and squinted at him. “That’s all from your experience? No judgements about stories you, a complete stranger, have no right to know?”

“My experience, Willow. I’ve heard things, yeah, but since I’ve never heard anything from you, I don’t really know anything, do I?”

Hesitantly, she gave him her palm to wrap.

* * *

 

A couple days before arriving in Sunnydale, Dean had packed his few meager possessions – his leather jacket, the keys to the Impala, his .45, all inherited from his father when he’d turned 18 – in a box for Bobby to pass on to Sam. It was the end of the line. Much as Dean didn’t want to give himself over to Michael, he didn’t want evil to cover the earth either. If defeating Lucifer meant losing himself, at least he’d die a hero.

Then with one demon chase and the flick of Castiel’s grace, Dean stopped looking down the barrel of a gun. Sunnydale may have sewers full of vampires, but at least it wasn’t crawling with angels.

Feeling the soft embrace of his mattress, watching his stunning girlfriend – a woman he in no way deserved – pad out of his bedroom wearing only his t-shirt, put all that darkness firmly behind him. He had a home, a job, and someone who cared about him. Someone who believed in second chances for the wicked. Someone who wasn’t scared off by Hell-induced nightmares and ravings.

Someone who was coming back with a glass of water and a neglected house warming present. “You didn’t open it,” she said, tossing the forgotten tube on the bed beside him and handing him a folded piece of paper with his name on it. “And this was on the counter.”

He read the note first and snorted before giving it to Buffy. “‘Dean, You’re loud and inconsiderate. Worst roommate ever. Sam.’ My God, Sam, way to be a critic.”

“I think he has a point,” said Dean, smiling as he unwrapped his present. “We’ve set a precedent with volume, and we can’t ever let him down. Why, hello…” Inside the tube were reprints of movie posters for _King Kong_ and _Creature from the Black Lagoon_.

Buffy shrugged but beamed proudly. “Monsters plus terrible movies? Sounds like you.

“Terrible? _Terrible?_ We are going to have a movie marathon some day. Clearly, you need some educating on things that are awesome.”

“Had I known how much you liked crappy movies, I wouldn’t have been so offended when you told me I sounded like a B-movie,” she said, setting her glass of water on the nightstand.

“I said that?”

“The night we met.”

He pointed at the curvy pinup fainting in the Creature’s arms. “So are you going to start kicking ass in a white swimsuit? It doesn’t have to look like this. A string bikini would be absolutely fine. Something I can take off with my teeth.”

She giggled and playfully swatted at him.

Her smile enthralled him, made his whole body tingle. Her laugh warmed his heart. He took her in his arms and kissed her – wet, open-mouthed kisses on her throat and shoulders. “Thank you, Girly,” he whispered in her ear, “for making this place home.”


End file.
